The Unawriter's Lair

Vinni Jacques: Mayor of New Orleans

Tonight I received a wonderful note from Harry Mallory, one of the Bravo Company soldiers I lived with at the Seminary in New Orleans in Hurricane Katrina's wake. Here is what he said:

Hello John,

 

I can't remember if I've sent this off to you earlier, but its a fun picture of Vinni as the "mayor of New Orleans". This was taken while we were deployed for Katrina, inside the Seminary main facility. This pic, I think, illustrates why Vinni is such a personality with the 2/162. I think it belongs on your site. What do you think?

 

 

Harry, I think you are absolutely correct. Vinni got this insane suit from Mark Ditzel before we left Portland and swore he would wear it in New Orleans. Late in the deployment, he put it on and posed as the mayor of New Orleans, complete with palm-waving entourage and security detail composed of other members of Bravo Company. He walked over to the battalion TOC, which was in the student union, periodically yelling, "Wipe!" to his entourage. One of his "minions" would then scramble to dab his forehead with a baby wipe. He needed it, too. In that heat and humidity, Vinni sweated profusely in that ridiculous ensemble.

 

Inside the TOC, Vinni approached each officer on the battalion staff and personally thanked them for coming to the rescue of his city. He then made some truly hilarious remarks that left the officers laughing and are most certainly not fit to print here.

 

The point was, morale was starting to sag. We'd been without showers for ten days at least, and nobody had eaten anything aside from MRE's since we got into the city. It was hot, and Mayor Nagin was nowhere to be seen. The last I'd heard from him, he had been on the radio vowing to stay in New Orleans despite the fact that the CIA was out to get him.

 

Earlier that day, Sean Conners suffered a serious abdominal injury that resulted in him being medevac'd out in a Blackhawk.

 

Vinni decided we all needed a little VIP comic relief. It was much needed, and symbolized why he was so loved within the unit. He always had the company's pulse and sensed when something needed to be done to give everyone a lift.

 

Besides, it was just plain funny as hell.  After what we'd all seen on the streets of Mayor Nagin's city, we all needed a good laugh. 

A Yin and Yang Moment

Back in 2005, I met SFC Vince "Vinni" Jacques at the Bravo Company, 2-162 armory when I first started writing "The Devil's Sandbox." Wary of a media-type at first, Vinni and I soon discovered that we were kindred spirits, and one of the closest friendships I've ever known grew quickly between us. When 2-162 was mobilized for Hurricane Katrina, I embeded with Bravo Company, mainly because I could not stand the thought of all the friends I'd made going off to New Orleans without me. I ended up sleeping on the ground next to Vinni's cot for the next month, patrolling through the ruins of North Central New Orleans with Bravo Company.

I embarked on that adventure anxiety-ridden and unsure if I could hack the physical requirements of what I would face. I did not know how I would be received by the men, and I certainly didn't know how I was ogoing to react to the sight of Americans lying dead in the streets.

Vinni set the tone for me the first night we arrived.

Before we had left, I'd sent an e-mail to an old college flame whom I had not heard from since 1992. It had been a sincere desire of mine to somehow build a friendship with her. I'd been very close to her in college, but things ended badly--my fault. I had hoped time would allow both of us to let the bitterness go and remember all the fun and connectivity we shared. As I sat through the battalion intel briefings in Salem before we left, we were told that every Guard unit to enter the city had been shot at by looters or gang-bangers. I was not sure what would happen, and if the worst did, I wanted to at least make an attempt to leave things better with JoLyn before I left. So I sent her an e-mail and told her that I hoped someday we might be able to get to the point where we could talk again and at be Christmas card friends.

When we landed at NAS New Orleans, the portable stairs used to offoad the airliners that were coming into the base had been damaged in the storm. The would not fully extend, so the men had to jump four feet from the plane's door to the top of the stairs. One of the NCO's lost his balance and tumbled to the tarmac, breaking his back.

I remember that leap quite clearly. I hit the platform with a thud, but Vinni was there to steady me and keep me from a similar fate. Together, we descended the stairs and climbed aboard some waiting busses. They drove the company to a stretch of tarmac lined with shredded canvas enclosures where aircraft were usually parked to keep them out of the Southern sun.

Across from where we spent that first night stood a hangar, where a California National Guard unit had established an internet cafe. I wandered over late that night, checked my e-mail, and discovered that JoLyn had indeed written back to me. Could this be the breakthrough I'd hoped for? Nope. I read her caustic words telling me to basically go stuff it, and felt the old wound of that relationship tear open.

I walked back to the company area and found Vinni waiting for me. He saw right away that something was wrong. When I told him, he put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, "John, don't worry about it. You're with us now."

Vinni's words vanquished all the pain. In that moment, that long dead relationship finally slipped away; I let it go as I should have a decade before. Sometimes, there's just no salvaging anything, no matter how close two people may have once been. That little reality of life was one I never quite got until that night.

In the weeks that followed, I shadowed Bravo Company and saw things I wish I never had. Being with men like Vinni and Tommy Houston, Matt Zedwick, Chris Johnson, Spike Olsen, Demian San Miguel, Harry Mallory, Ivan Watts, Sweety Petey, Stiney and the BC--just to name a few-- not only made those sights easier to bear, but the friendships that grew between us was one I treasure to this day. All the while, Vinni kept an eye on me, chewed me out when I screwed up, and encouraged me when exhaustion and the heat started to wear at my morale. He also victimized the hell out of me with his devilish pranks, which sparked a war between the two of us that endured through the deployment.

Flash forward five years. I'm days from leaving on a new experience with the Oregon National Guard, and this morning I drove up to Clackamas Community College to a huge job fair Vinni had helped to organize for the freshly returned members of the 41st Brigade who have just completed another year in Iraq.

Vinni and I haven't seen much of each other in the past six months. I think the last time we linked up was at Camp Adair on my birthday back in February. When I found him on campus today, it was like seeing the brother I never had. A bear hug, a few words, and that bond between us was as solid as ever.

One of Vinni's friends snapped a photo of us from my Blackberry. As I walked back to the Solstice, threw the top down and made ready to drive home, I paused to look at the snapshot. Instantly, it reminded me of one that was taken of the two of us together in New Orleans. Usually, I was the one taking the photos, so I don't have many pictures of myself in New Orleans, and that one of the two of us means a lot to me. In all honesty, I always have to crop it when I post it anywhere, because at the last second I reached over and acted as if I was about to grab his crotch, so it isn't all that appropriate for a general audience, but it still cracks me the hell up.

That photo, taken five years ago symbolized the solidification of my connection with Vinni, B Co, and the Oregon Guard. And now in the early days of this summer, we were again together one last time before I embark on another experience with my adopted state's finest. These photos have become the bookends of my last five years--and boy, what a lot has happened to all of us in the interval between these captured moments.

I drove south for Independence, blasting Rob Thomas' Real World '09 and wondered who I'd be the next time I see the brother I never had. See ya on the high ground, Sergeant Jacques. Your friendship has been one of the defining features of my life these past five years, and I will carry much of your spirit with me on the journey ahead.

The Last Deadline

The clock is ticking for me these days. I have only a few days left here in Independence before I begin the ultimate road trip, first to Ohio, then to Texas where I'll embed with an Oregon Guard unit preparing for combat operations in Afghanistan. I'll be traveling with them to Afghanistan, writing their stories for the rest of the summer, and most of my blog posts starting in July will chronicle what I see these remarkable men and women accomplish.

But first, I have one final deadline to meet. July 1st I am to deliver a book called "Bombs Away!" that is sort of a companion to the Bulge book I wrote last year. Bombs Away is the culmination of a long held dream of mine that started when I was a kid in Saratoga.

My dad is an exceptional model builder--a true artist with plastic, file, glue and paint. His models have earned national awards at IPMS conventions. As a kid, his den contained all his works of art in glass-encased cabinets. This was strictly off limits for me, which meant that I HAD to get in there to stare at those incredible aircraft models. In those cabinets stood rows of Mustangs, Lightnings, Messerschmitts and Hurricanes.

He also had an incredible aviation library. He arrayed his books with almost military precision, which meant every time I snagged one to read it, he would notice. I never got the hang of putting them back exactly as he had them arranged, so I always got caught with his forbidden fruit. Of course, all this fostered an intense love of aviation history in me and helped launch me on the path I've taken since leaving Dad's house in 1986.

I always wanted to write on the air war in Europe so that someday, one of those books on Dad's shelf would be mine. Earlier this spring, my friend Richard Kane gave me that opportunity. And so, in these waning days of my pre-Afghanistan life, I will be singularly focused on finishing this culmination of decades of dreaming. Bomb's Away will be a photographic history of the strategic bombing campaign in Europe accompanied by about 45,000 words of text.

What a joy. Back in the 90's, I interviewed hundreds of WWII aviators, and now I've been given the opportunity to pay homage to their experiences with images from the period and my words. The writing business comes freighted with all sorts of ups and downs, lean times and flush ones, but in the grand scheme of my life, this book will be one from the heart that first came to love aviation as a result of those stolen moments in my father's den. There is no way to express such gratitude for an opportunity like this one, except to pour every ounce of passion I have onto each page. In that passion, I'll be able to pay homage to my own past, as well as to the veterans of that air war I came to call friends during the last years of their lives as I came of age as a writer and historian twenty years ago.

A Good Day for a Beat Down

On Friday, June 18, 2010, the 973rd COB's returned to the training range for the tenth time since January to work with the Marion County Sheriff Department on active shooter scenarios. This was our first opportunity to work with MCSD, and the event was an extraordinary success. We received the invite to this exercise on Wednesday evening but still managed to bring eight members of the 973rd despite the short notice. We worked from 0600-1600 with three groups of about seven officers each, running vehicle stop scenarios and a few "lunatic running amok" in park iterations.

Joey Fugate, the master actor, reprised his role as "Mikey" the dimwitted petty criminal younger brother to my frustrated and straight-man role as "Tommy." That led to some interesting moments on the range, including one where Joey and I simulated being drunk and hostile. That led to me getting planted on the concrete and Joey's "Mikey" getting shot about a dozen times with sim rounds.

We have our own Robbie Marshall to thank for this new gig, and we'll have plenty of opportunities to work with MCSD in the months to come. We are running with them again on Monday for twelve hours, 0600-1800, and I'm sure it will be as successful as this first one turned out for everyone. Great day, great people, excellent training.

MacKinlay Kantor

"Many heroes lived, but all are unknown and unwept, extinguished in everlasting night because they have no chronicler."

-Quintus Horatius Flaccus.

 

Born in 1904, MacKinlay Kantor grew up in Iowa, where he showed considerable writing talent even as a kid. As an adult, he became a novelist and published his first novel at age twenty-four. He wrote crime stories at first, then in the Depression he switched to military and historical novels set in the American Civil War.

During World War II, Kantor tried to join the service, but he was almost forty when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He was 4F'd, but that didn't stop him from getting into the fight. He went to England as a correspondent for an LA-based newspaper. He flew combat missions with both RAF and USAAF bombers, and even learned how to operate the turrets on B-17's and B-24's.

After D-Day, he reached the Continent and chronicled the experiences of the foot soldiers fighting their way into Germany. On April 14, 1945, he was present when American troops liberated Buchenwald Concentration Camp.

He returned at the end of the war and wrote a beautiful and poignant book on PTSD and the struggle of veterans to reintegrate back into their communities back home. Glory for Me was published later that year in 1945 by Coward-McCann Inc. It is the story of three combat-scarred veterans, Fred, Homer and Al, who meet in a B-17 that flies them back to their hometown of Boone City. What unfolds is a case study of recovery from trauma and failed relationships as each man endures his own struggle to overcome the things that scarred his soul overseas.

In 1946, MGM turned Glory for Me into one of the most loved movies of the era. The Best Years of Our Lives earned seven Academy Awards, including a special one for the actor who played Homer. The movie's themes are timeless and as poignant today after nine years of war as they were in 1946. The AFI lists it as one of the top 100 American films ever made.

Kantor continued writing novels on the Civil War and later on the American Revolution. He published his most famous work, Andersonville in 1956. The stunning story of the Union POW's and how they were treated at that notorious Confederate prison earned Kantor a Pulitzer Prize that year.

Kantor publshed over thirty novels during the course of his life. Most of them delved into the life and experiences of ordinary American soldiers. He based many of his early Civil War books on interviews he personally conducted with Union and Confederate veterans.

He died in 1977 at the age of 73, leaving behind a legacy of respect and reverence for the soldiers, airmen and sailors he wrote about in his lifetime body of work.

   

From Glory for Me:

When you come out of war to quiet streets

You lug your War along with you.

You walk a snail-path. On your back you carry

it-

 

A scaly load that makes your shoulders raw;

And not a hand can ever lift the shell

That cuts your hide. You only wear it yourself--

Look up one day, and vaguely see it gone.

...And one day it is gone if you are wise.

The Forgotten Corners of Our History

Saturday's trip to Pendleton reminded me that there is a rich heritage of military service here in Oregon. It gets overlooked all the time, either because of the population's attitude, or that few have bothered to try and record it. But it is there for those who want to seek it out.

As we flew into Pendleton, I looked down at the airfield and saw a B-25 Mitchell mounted as the centerpiece for a memorial out behind the main hangar. What would a B-25 be doing in Pendleton? At the start of WWII, the base served as an Army Air Forces facility and was home to the 17th Bombardment Group. The 17th was one of the first to get the new B-25, and for the first few months of the war, they flew anti-submarine patrols off the coast of the Pacific Northwest. They were credited with sinking a Japanese I-boat during these otherwise dreary and boring missions.

That changed when men and aircraft from the 17th served as the cadre for the Doolittle Raid. All that began in Pendleton, Oregon, and the first real counter-blow we inflicted on the Japanese had its genesis out east of the Cascades. It was quite a moment for me to slip away after the mob ceremony to go spend a moment by the B-25. The aircraft are different today, but the spirit, the daring and the courage it took to carry those bombers over Tokyo in April, 1942, thrives in the military to this day. That is the greatest achievement of the Raid--moments like that one serve as an example for all who follow and wear the uniform.

Seventeen of the eighty men on the mission died during the war. Another eight returned home from prison camps after the VE and VJ Days.

In 1992, I was fortunate to meet and interview four Oregonians who flew on the Doolittle Raid. I remember General "Brick" Holstrom the best. He was a dynamic, engaging man with a solid sense of humor. The Doolittle Raid was only the start of his war. He returned home, rejoined the 17th Bomb Group and went on to take part in the invasion of North Aftica in November 1942. By that time, the 17th had traded its B-25's for the B-26 Marauder. In early 1943, Brick was shot down and captured. He took part in the Great Escape and even had some actor play him in the movie. He told me with a rueful smile that all his scenes ended up on the cutting room floor.

I stood by that B-25, remembering my few hours with Brick and the other Raiders in Eugene that day. They'd come into town to be honored by the local air museum. It made me feel blessed; this life I've led has brought me into contact with exceptional human beings. It has been my defining passion to be able to tell their stories.

Bravo Company, 1-168 Mob Ceremony, June 5, 2010

On Saturday, I was flown by the ONG out to Pendleton to attend Bravo 1-168 Aviation's mobilization ceremony. Aside from Captain Bomar, Tech. Sgt. Choy, Major General Rees, Captain Pete Wood and Command Sergeant Major Brunk Conley, I didn't know anyone in the hangar that afternoon.

It reminded me of the day I stood on the tarmac at McChord AFB and watched 2-162 Infantry return home from its 2004-05 deployment. I took photos of complete strangers, who during the course of writing the Devil's Sandbox, would later become like family to me. Years later, I stumbled across those photos and marveled at who I captured in those images that day. I saw Pete Salerno as he stepped off the plane, Shannon Compton shaking hands with Vinni Jacques, Ken Kaiser all smiles--and of course LTC Dan Hendrickson.

Then came the reunion with the families in a gym at Fort Lewis.  Soldiers and loved ones mobbed each other the moment the formation was dismissed. I walked among a sea of strangers and photographed moments of such profound joy that I felt like an intruder. Looking back, I was amazed at how through that project, some of those families became extensions of my own.

This past Saturday, I stood alone in the hangar, two cameras strapped around my neck. I used a 500mm telephoto lens this time to capture the moments that unfolded during the ceremony. This time, instead of feeling like an intruder, I felt more like a voyeur, observing these people unknown to me as of yet with both physical and personal distance between us.

 I am sure that in the months to come, we will get to know each other as this deployment unfolds. That experience will be the one I will cherish the most, for I know in those ranks of present-strangers will be friends for life by the time I take my leave from them this fall.

 Their stories will be told. For now, these images will have to suffice. The men and women of Bravo  1-168 Aviation just experienced a key dividing line in their lives. In a few days, they will be cleaved from their families and loved ones, sent to Texas for their pre-deployment training for six weeks. From there, they will fly to Afghanistan for a year in the heat of battle. Their six Chinook helicopters will carry troops and supplies to distant points unheard of and unuttered by most back here at home.

It will change them. For some, it will redraw their social networks, seal or rend asunder the fabric of their families. When they come home, they will have gone through one of the defining experiences of their lives. Some already understand this, as this deployment will not be their first. After nine long years of war, we are a country that has relied too heavily on far too few.

God and Captains Hoffman and Bomar, Third Army and whoever else in the chain of command willing, I will be out there with them, at least for the beginning of this odyssey.

.

Ninety Minute Reality Check

There are times in life when small moments become epochal events in one's personal history. Outsiders looking at you would pause and wonder why such a moment would have such a profound effect. There is no window to the soul, and in the barrier that exists between us and most of those around us, the truth cannot be plumbed. It is ours alone to discover and understand.

I had such a moment yesterday. Since Taylor's death, my life has been  rocky. His death wasn't the cause, but it was a contributing factor, one whose tremors sent ripples through every aspect of who I am and where I wanted to go. I have been daring and have taken risks I probably never would have taken otherwise. It has been an aggressive approach to life that has flamed me to a crisp twice. No matter. I'm not through with that game. Life needs to be lived with conscious passion. Moments, small and grand, must be experienced. Otherwise, we're only treading water and waiting to die, a life wasted through inaction and fear. That is not for me.

Yesterday, I rode an Oregon National Guard Blackhawk from Salem to Pendleton and back. Some of those aboard the flight slept. This was old hat to them, ninety minutes each way to be endured. I understand that. This was part of their routine, nothing more. For me, it was the culmination of a dream I'd had since New Orleans almost five years ago.

Captain Stephen Bomar and Technical Sergeant Nick Choy set this up for me, and I owe them a huge debt. They were flat-out awesome the entire time, and made sure that on the way back I sat in the gunner's seat, window open, so that I could lean into the slipstream and take photographs.

Can a couple of ninety minute flights change a life? Why not? I sat in that helicopter as we sped over the Cascades and marveled at the beauty around us. The vibrations in the cabin were totally unlike a commerial airliner or light plane, and their newness  kept me engaged the entire time we stayed aloft.

I had forgotten how much I love to fly. Since I stepped off the flight at PANG after Katrina, I've been in the air only once in the past five years. Yesterday's journey reawakened that passion and I embraced it like a long lost flame. I cannot wait to get aloft again.

As we threaded our way through the mountains, I left behind all the concerns, tension and drama of my life in the valley to our six. Getting separated from them, if even only briefly, lent a perspective to my life that has been sorely lacking. I felt refreshed; the smile never faded. As the majesty of my adopted state rolled past below, I saw a vision of where I need to be in the months to come.

It isn't in my office; it is out in the field, writing about the men and women who fly these incredible types of machines, or who are carried into harm's way by their rotors. Their stories will be my passion; it will be my fulfillment. And in the journey that I will share with them in the months to come, I will bring all the talent, skill and dedication I have to my craft and profession to ensure that they are honored properly.